The ancestor destroying you

The mountain was quiet that morning—too quiet.

Thin mist curled along the high ledges of the spire, wrapping the stone outcroppings in a shroud of gray. Snow hadn't fallen, but the air held that crystalline bite, sharp enough to sting the skin but not quite enough to chase a man indoors.

Kyle stood by the study window, his silhouette caught in the pale morning light.

He looked at the calendar hung on the far wall of the study, its parchment edges fluttering gently from the mountain breeze that slipped through the open windows.

The date was circled.

Fifteen more days.

He leaned against the edge of the window frame, arms folded across his chest, a rare weight pressing down on his chest. The usual lightness in his eyes was dimmed, replaced with something quieter… heavier.

In fifteen days, she would arrive.

His fiancée.

He exhaled slowly, jaw clenched so tightly it made his teeth ache. The usual spark in his eyes, the ever-present glint of mischief that never left him for long, had dulled into something quieter. Something unreadable. Even the wind, always lively at this altitude, seemed to still in deference to his silence.

"Fiancée," he muttered under his breath, the word tasting foreign in his mouth. Like ash. Like someone else's name being stapled to his fate.

The engagement had been arranged years ago—technically. Though "arranged" was a generous word. In truth, it was born from one of the few times Kyle's playful flirtation had genuinely pierced through his master's icy calm.

He remembered it vividly.

Well… it started the same way most of his regrets and triumphs did: with his mouth.

Because younger Kyle—bold, flirty, irreverent Kyle—had no concept of restraint when it came to teasing his master. What started as playful words and knowing smiles had slowly turned into genuine affection. The kind that grew roots and refused to die. Even back then, he didn't hide it. Not his glances. Not the compliments laced with heat and reverence. Not the way he lingered near her long after lessons ended, waiting for something more.

And Egeria… the poor woman had no idea how to deal with it.

The goddess of balance and justice—so poised in the face of divine court rulings and celestial negotiations—was completely undone by a boy too bold for his own good. He still remembered that day.

She stood on the stone terrace, arms folded tightly beneath her long sleeves, her voice unusually stiff.

"You will stop this foolish behavior immediately. Or…"She faltered then—actually faltered—and Kyle nearly burst out laughing if it weren't for the rare flush gracing her cheeks. "Or I will arrange your engagement to my other apprentice. Focalors. Permanently." Then, after a pause, she added coldly: "Or you may descend the mountain and find another master entirely. Your choice."

He hadn't expected an ultimatum.

He definitely hadn't expected Focalor.

And now, the bluff was becoming reality.

Focalors—was returning.

He had never met her, only heard stories. Egeria spoke of her sparingly, but always with a complicated fondness. She had raised her not only as a student but as something like a daughter. Focalor had been away for decades, following a task given by her master that kept her far from Fontaine's capital and from this mountain peak.

And now she was returning. Returning to him.

Returning as his fiancée.

He had no idea what she would think of this absurd engagement. Would she laugh? Mock it? Reject it outright? Would she accept it with divine detachment? What kind of woman had Egeria raised in Focalor's image?

He didn't know.

But that wasn't the part that made him feel hollow.

It was Egeria.

Because despite the teasing, the flirting, the soft rituals they had shared every day for years—despite the hundreds of tiny moments where something more pulsed between them—she had never said the words he longed to hear.

All these years, and still she hadn't said it. Not once. Not in words.

She let him stay. Let him wander her halls. Sit beside her in silence. Brew her tea—always with two extra drops of honey, even when she never asked for it. She never complained when his hand brushed hers, when his gaze lingered too long, when his voice softened and dipped into intimacy just shy of scandal.

He had dared everything—pushed every boundary. But he never crossed the line she kept carefully drawn between them.

And she never erased it.

Not once.

Even when he knew—he knew—that she wanted to.

There were moments when he thought she might. Moments when her fingers hovered over his wrist for too long while healing a burn. Moments when she looked at him across candlelight and forgot to speak. Moments when her breath hitched ever so slightly at the sound of his laughter.

But she always retreated.

Behind duty. Behind divinity. Behind silence.

"I love you," he whispered now, to no one.

The words didn't echo. They didn't need to.

He'd never said them aloud before. Not even once. Because saying them to her would be unfair. Would be cruel. Because Egeria wasn't allowed to be loved—not the way he loved her. Not as a woman.

But still, the truth stood unshaken in his heart:

He loved her.

Utterly. Irrevocably. Without shame.

Master and apprentice? He didn't care. God and mortal? He'd burn the heavens down. He had never followed her for power. Never stayed for the knowledge. It was always her.

Just her.

And he knew—he knew—she didn't either. Egeria never cared what the world thought. She never bowed to convention.

But she feared her own emotions. Feared what they might cost her. So she buried them. Sealed them behind duty and silence.

And now he wondered…

Would this engagement finally break the fragile balance between them?

Or would it destroy the only bond he'd ever truly cherished?

The courtyard was cloaked in velvet night, the air crisp and humming with the low chirr of nocturnal insects. A breeze whispered through the high mountain pines, swaying the lanterns that hung from the carved wooden beams, their golden light flickering across ancient stone.

In the center of the open courtyard sat a modest table of dark polished wood, aged smooth by years of use. Upon it lay a chessboard—ivory and obsidian squares glowing under the moonlight like a battlefield caught between the worlds of shadow and truth.

Egeria sat on one side, back straight, posture regal even in repose. She wore no crown tonight, no ceremonial robes. Just a deep blue wrap of wool and silk, modest yet elegant, draped over her shoulders. Her long white hair was loosely braided down her back, a few strands caught in the wind, ghosting over her cheek.

Kyle sat opposite her, hunched slightly in his chair, legs stretched out like he wasn't taking it seriously.

But he always took it seriously.

Especially when it was her.

"I've lost count," he murmured, spinning one of his pawns idly between two fingers. "Is this game 3,482? Or have I finally slipped into a dream where you let me win out of pity?"

Egeria didn't look up. Her hand moved with practiced grace, plucking her knight from its square and sliding it into place with a soft tap.

"You'd dream of victory," she replied coolly, "only to wake in checkmate, as usual."

Kyle let out a soft laugh, leaning back in his chair. "Oof. That was cold. Even for you."

Her lips quirked. Not quite a smile—but for Egeria, it might as well have been a sonnet.

Silence settled again, comfortable and old, like a shawl the two of them wore out of habit. The fire in the brazier beside them crackled quietly. Kyle stared at the board for a moment, feigning deep contemplation, then moved a bishop forward with a flourish.

"Ah, the bold diagonal. Very daring," Egeria murmured dryly, examining his move.

"Don't patronize me. You know I don't understand what I'm doing."

"That's what makes it so dangerous. For your own side."

He gave her a look of mock injury, one hand over his chest. "You wound me, my lady."

Her eyes lifted then, barely—just enough to meet his.

It lasted less than a heartbeat. But in that moment, something raw flickered in the stillness between them. A shared awareness, a silence filled with the gravity of all the things unsaid.

Kyle looked away first.

He always did.

"You're unusually quiet tonight," Egeria said after a pause, returning her focus to the game. Her fingers hovered over the queen, then decisively moved her forward, slicing clean through his position.

Check.

Kyle stared at the board.

"You knew that would happen," he said softly. "Three turns ago."

"I always know."

He gave a quiet scoff. "Must be exhausting. Always being right."

Egeria didn't reply.

Instead, she looked at him fully now, really looked—her gaze sharper than the mountain wind.

"You've been thinking of her," she said.

Kyle's heart thudded once. A dull, leaden sound.

"I'd be stupid not to," he said, voice lighter than he felt. "In fifteen days, I'm supposed to marry a woman I've never met. That tends to... stay in the mind."

"You're not marrying her," Egeria said flatly. "Not unless you choose to."

He met her eyes again. His were dark, unreadable. But his voice was gentle when he asked:

"Then why did you choose it for me?"

The words hung in the cold night air like frost.

Egeria didn't answer immediately. Her hands folded quietly in her lap, one thumb brushing over the other in a motion she likely didn't realize she was making. Kyle recognized it. A nervous tic. A crack in the marble.

"I warned you," she said finally, "not to play games you couldn't afford to lose."

Kyle smiled. Bitterly. "I wasn't playing. Not with you."

A long silence followed.

The stars wheeled above them in their ancient orbits. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called and was answered.

Egeria's voice was low when it came, almost inaudible.

"You were never meant to stay."

"I know."

"I was only meant to teach you. Nothing more."

"I know."

She exhaled—slow, deep, like a dam threatening to give.

"But you stayed anyway."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, the chessboard between them suddenly irrelevant. His voice dropped into something intimate. A whisper that dared to touch the sacred.

"Because you never asked me to leave."

Egeria's hands tightened in her lap.

"I couldn't," she admitted. "I didn't want to."

There it was.

Not a confession. Not quite.

But close enough to break him.

Kyle leaned back, running a hand through his hair, staring up at the stars like they might offer him something—guidance, clarity, peace. They offered nothing.

"You know," he said, softer now, "when I was younger, I thought I could wear you down. That if I flirted long enough, smiled wide enough, you'd break. Fall. Tell me to stay—not as your student, but as your equal."

He looked at her again, more tired than she'd ever seen him.

"But you're not someone who falls, are you, Egeria?"

"No," she said quietly. "I'm not."

Kyle nodded once. Then tipped over his king with a gentle flick.

Checkmate.

Again.

She didn't gloat. Didn't move. Only stared at the toppled piece.

Then, quietly, she said:

"I never thought you would make it this far."

"You mean live this long?" he joked.

"I mean stay this long," she replied. "Even after I tried to drive you away."

"You didn't try very hard."

"I should have."

"Wouldn't have worked."

Egeria turned her gaze away, toward the far edge of the courtyard where the pines cast long shadows.

After a pause, she asked, "Do you hate me?"

"No."

"You should."

"I can't."

The answer came without hesitation.

And for the first time that night, something in her expression cracked—just faintly. Not grief. Not longing. Something far older. Sadness carved from marble.

"Go to bed," she said, standing abruptly. "It's late."

"I know."

She turned, gathering her shawl around her. "And Kyle…"

He looked up.

She didn't look at him.

"…Don't fall in love with her just to spite me."

His breath caught. His voice, when it came, was a ghost.

"…I would never."

And then she was gone.

Leaving behind a chessboard, a broken king, and a man who had already lost the only game he ever wanted to win.